


Fogsick

by akadiene



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: An interlude somewhere in there, C2E36, Drowning, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2019-07-23 09:38:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16156433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akadiene/pseuds/akadiene
Summary: Fjord nearly dies, possibly, and contemplates home, wetly.





	Fogsick

**Author's Note:**

> Somewhere in episode 36. Probably got some details wrong! O well.

In the early morning the fog rolls in thick like the fresh coat of Jester’s paint on the bow of the ship, obscuring the top of the masts and leaving them floating in a cold, wet cloud, unable to see further than thirty feet around them. Like the ship is an island, alone in the water.

It makes Fjord uneasy. Not the least because of the reduced vision -- anything could sneak up on them, or come at them from below, or from the sky, like the harpies. The Mistake is not built for battle, and their crew is not fight-ready, though they have been, so far, efficient and knowledgeable and perhaps most importantly forgiving of Fjord’s flaws as a captain. But more than that, the fog -- it calls to him, he thinks, like it wants to swallow him up, or else maybe he just wants to lose himself in it. He doesn’t think he would mind. It would be so easy. The water, the mist, the fog, the cold, the wind, the salt, the screech of gulls and the speed of gannets diving for fish, the sun glittering on the ripples of waves, the tides: home, maybe, though he doesn’t have much experience with that. It’s as close as he’s going to get, possibly. And he wants to get closer.

“Fjord,” says a voice from behind him, “what the fuck are you doing?”

He startles and turns and slips -- off the railing, where he was perched, apparently, without him having even noticed. As he falls he sees Beau’s face over the railing, more expressive than he’s seen it in a while, her mouth a perfect ‘O’, and his hands slip on the damp wood. He can’t catch himself, can’t even think before he feels the breath-taking impact of his body falling through frigid water. Something in him roars -- he doesn’t fight it, any of it. It would be so easy. It is so easy. Home, whatever that is, should always be easy, shouldn’t it?

And then he opens his eyes, and instead of the pregnant darkness of water he sees the concerned faces of his friends looking down at him.The sky is still hidden by the cloud surrounding them -- it hasn’t been very long. He coughs, violently -- spits up brine, and a piece of brown seaweed. He is shivering, and wet, and laying on the deck of the ship, and someone is holding his hand and crying -- Jester, who is also dripping and shaking -- and someone is holding his head -- Caduceus, who is praying, Fjord thinks, for healing.

“What,” he begins, then coughs some more. There’s vomit, already, on his chin and torso.

“See?” says Nott from around Fjord’s feet. She sounds shrill, and too-loud, her screech pounding in his head. “I told you the water was bad. I told you, didn’t I? And now look. Fjord nearly drowned.”

“Fjord? Are you okay?” says Jester. She doesn’t let go of his hand to wipe at her sniffles, just brings it up with hers to her nose, and it comes away slightly snotty.

“I’m -- fine, Jes. I’m fine.” He squeezes her hand.

“Are you?” say Beau from his left. He tries to turn his head to look at her but Caduceus holds it tight, so instead, Fjord takes stock of himself.

His throat is sore, raw and stripped, and his lungs and stomach are burning as if he’s expelled everything from inside of him and more. His back hurts, presumably from how he fell onto the sea, but he feels that mending with Caduceus’ mumbling. And he thinks, though he’s not sure, that he has a few splinters in his hands.

“Fine enough,” he says.

“Jester got you out,” says Caleb, at his feet with Nott.

“I did,” Jester says. Her crying has slowed and her eyes, usually reddish to begin with, now are vivid enough to almost look like Molly’s did. Fjord looks away. “Well, Yasha helped pull you up, but mostly it was me.”

“Well, thank you, Jester,” he says. Whispers, more like. It’s difficult to speak.

“You were drowning,” she says. “Why did you do that? Why did you go into the water?”

“It wasn’t on purpose,” says Fjord. Caduceus’ hands loosen and scritch Fjord’s hair a little before helping him sit up. They’re all there, sitting around him in a tight circle, even Yasha next to Jester, her hair wet and stringy and long and her kohl running down her face, and he feels empty. Not just his stomach or his lungs, searing with each breath, but also of the roar, no longer echoing in his mind.

“You were on the railing like you were going to jump,” says Beau. “I saw you.”

“I didn’t -- it wasn’t on purpose.”

“It was your -- your, patron, Fjord? Your magic?” says Caleb, getting it before the rest, as always.

“The eye inside of you?” says Jester.

“The water,” says Nott.

“I suppose,” Fjord says, looking at Caleb, whose hand is at his mouth chewing on his fingernails, a habit Fjord doesn’t think Caleb’s ever noticed.

“I knew it,” Nott says, sagely.

Caleb frowns, and puts his arm around Nott. “Maybe you should rest, Fjord.”

“And get out of these wet clothes,” says Caduceus. “Dry yourself out.”

“Right,” says Fjord, but when he tries to push himself up, it feels impossible. His arms are weak, and he feels as if he can’t take a full breath, and his entire body hurts, hurts in a way he’s never felt before. Not even that time his last ship sank, not even when he was pulled under and awoke, magic at his fingertips for the first time, on a shore near Nicodranas, right in the path of Jester, the only thing that’s ever made him believe in fate. “Can someone --”

“I’ve got it,” says Yasha, and she scoops him up in her arms like a child. He doesn’t even have the energy to protest -- before the fog he’d been up for hours, anyway, watching for any sign of attack, and he feels tired, and drained. She carries him down to crew quarters, where he’s been sleeping since they hired Orly.

“I don’t understand, his armour should have --” he hears Beau say before they’re out of audibly range, and then he’s being jostled about by Yasha and she goes down the rickety stairs.

“Oh my Gods,” says Gallan, startling from where he was sitting on his bunk next to Fjord’s, though the room is otherwise empty. “What happened? Is everything alright?”

“Get out,” says Yasha.

“Uh, yes, Yasha, ma’am,” he says, and shoots up. A single lit lantern sways near the stairs offering little light, but Fjord can see Gallan is intimidated by Yasha. Understandable, really. So is Fjord, even on his best days.

“Now,” she says, and Gallan runs up the stairs, swearing as he stumbles. A brief flash of light as he lifts the hatch before they are once again plunged in the dank, yellow light of the lantern.

Yasha sets him on his bed sitting up and in silence bends to help him untie his boots.

“You don’t have to --” Fjord says, but shuts up when Yasha looks at him, face still blackened by her running makeup, and raises an eyebrow.

She does his boots, then helps him lift away his armour, cold to the touch and now tacky with drying salt water, and sets it aside gently. His tight undershirt comes next -- it hurts to lift his arms, but with her help he gets it off. The pants he does himself. She takes his things, even the armour.

“To dry off in the sun later,” she says.

“What if --”

“We will keep watch.”

The ship tilts, and Fjord thinks that if he hadn’t coughed up everything in his stomach already, he would be well on his way now. He watches as she goes up the stairs, willing his body to lay down, though it’s going to take more effort than usual. He nearly drowned. Or -- he was drowning. He fell unconscious. Jester dived into the water and saved him somehow and Yasha helped pull him up and he’s going to have to ask for details later, but now isn’t the time. Would he have died? Or would the -- the thing, his patron, his magic, his roar, would it have saved him? Welcomed him home? Taken him? But is his mission done? It can’t be. They’re going to the island for a reason, to sea Captain Avantica, for the eye.

Maybe it was all in his head, or maybe the fog was playing tricks on him. He’s heard stories of such things, of white ladies in the mist and sea creatures calling out to sailors to devour them whole, and sirens luring enchanted men into their waters. It would be just his luck, after all.

Yasha turns to look at him from the top of the stairs before pushing up the hatch.

“You know,” she says, “I understand being called by something you don’t understand and aren’t sure if you should listen to.”

“I didn’t -- how did you --”

“I just said, I understand.”

“Oh,” Fjord says. He picks at a piece of wood that’s embedded in his palm but it’s lodged in there pretty securely -- he’ll have to ask Nott to help later; she’s got her long pointy claws, when she lets them out, that might do the trick. “Well, what should I do about it.”

“Uh, well, I don’t know, I -- I think I hear Nott calling for me,” she says, then pushes up the hatch and goes out into the morning, and leaves Fjord, without his armour, sore and salt-caked and alone. Maybe there is no home -- maybe there never will be, not for him. Or maybe this really is as close as he'll get: in a creaking, swaying ship, the smell of damp wood and seaweed etched into his skin and sewn into the sinews of him, his friends above him, the ocean all around him.

He lays down with difficulty and it doesn’t take long before he feels sleep take him, and replace the emptiness with lethargy. He hopes he doesn’t dream.

**Author's Note:**

> [bluegrasshole](http://www.bluegrasshole.tumblr.com) is where my jokes go, [fjordhavemercy](http://www.fjordhavemercy.tumblr.com) is where my horde of podcast- and fandom-related things go


End file.
